She, by H. Rider Haggard

Chapter 1

My Visitor

There are some events of which each circumstance and surrounding detail seems to be graven on the memory in such
fashion that we cannot forget it, and so it is with the scene that I am about to describe. It rises as clearly before
my mind at this moment as thought it had happened but yesterday.

It was in this very month something over twenty years ago that I, Ludwig Horace Holly, was sitting one night in my
rooms at Cambridge, grinding away at some mathematical work, I forget what. I was to go up for my fellowship within a
week, and was expected by my tutor and my college generally to distinguish myself. At last, wearied out, I flung my
book down, and, going to the mantelpiece, took down a pipe and filled it. There was a candle burning on the
mantelpiece, and a long, narrow glass at the back of it; and as I was in the act of lighting the pipe I caught sight of
my own countenance in the glass, and paused to reflect. The lighted match burnt away till it scorched my fingers,
forcing me to drop it; but still I stood and stared at myself in the glass, and reflected.

“Well,” I said aloud, at last, “it is to be hoped that I shall be able to do something with the inside of my head,
for I shall certainly never do anything by the help of the outside.”

This remark will doubtless strike anybody who reads it as being slightly obscure, but I was in reality alluding to
my physical deficiencies. Most men of twenty-two are endowed at any rate with some share of the comeliness of youth,
but to me even this was denied. Short, thick-set, and deep-chested almost to deformity, with long sinewy arms, heavy
features, deep-set grey eyes, a low brow half overgrown with a mop of thick black hair, like a deserted clearing on
which the forest had once more begun to encroach; such was my appearance nearly a quarter of a century ago, and such,
with some modification, it is to this day. Like Cain, I was branded — branded by Nature with the stamp of abnormal
ugliness, as I was gifted by Nature with iron and abnormal strength and considerable intellectual powers. So ugly was I
that the spruce young men of my College, though they were proud enough of my feats of endurance and physical prowess,
did not even care to be seen walking with me. Was it wonderful that I was misanthropic and sullen? Was it wonderful
that I brooded and worked alone, and had no friends — at least, only one? I was set apart by Nature to live alone, and
draw comfort from her breast, and hers only. Women hated the sight of me. Only a week before I had heard one call me a
“monster” when she thought I was out of hearing, and say that I had converted her to the monkey theory. Once, indeed, a
woman pretended to care for me, and I lavished all the pent-up affection of my nature upon her. Then money that was to
have come to me went elsewhere, and she discarded me. I pleaded with her as I have never pleaded with any living
creature before or since, for I was caught by her sweet face, and loved her; and in the end by way of answer she took
me to the glass, and stood side by side with me, and looked into it.

“Now,” she said, “if I am Beauty, who are you?” That was when I was only twenty.

And so I stood and stared, and felt a sort of grim satisfaction in the sense of my own loneliness; for I had neither
father, nor mother, nor brother; and as I did so there came a knock at my door.

I listened before I went to open it, for it was nearly twelve o’clock at night, and I was in no mood to admit any
stranger. I had but one friend in the College, or, indeed, in the world — perhaps it was he.

Just then the person outside the door coughed, and I hastened to open it, for I knew the cough.

A tall man of about thirty, with the remains of great personal beauty, came hurrying in, staggering beneath the
weight of a massive iron box which he carried by a handle with his right hand. He placed the box upon the table, and
then fell into an awful fit of coughing. He coughed and coughed till his face became quite purple, and at last he sank
into a chair and began to spit up blood. I poured out some whisky into a tumbler, and gave it to him. He drank it, and
seemed better; though his better was very bad indeed.

“Why did you keep me standing there in the cold?” he asked pettishly. “You know the draughts are death to me.”

“I did not know who it was,” I answered. “You are a late visitor.”

“Yes; and I verily believe it is my last visit,” he answered, with a ghastly attempt at a smile. “I am done for,
Holly. I am done for. I do not believe that I shall see tomorrow.”

“Nonsense!” I said. “Let me go for a doctor.”

He waved me back imperiously with his hand. “It is sober sense; but I want no doctors. I have studied medicine and I
know all about it. No doctors can help me. My last hour has come! For a year past I have only lived by a miracle. Now
listen to me as you have never listened to anybody before; for you will not have the opportunity of getting me to
repeat my words. We have been friends for two years; now tell me how much do you know about me?”

“I know that you are rich, and have had a fancy to come to College long after the age that most men leave it. I know
that you have been married, and that your wife died; and that you have been the best, indeed almost the only friend I
ever had.”

“Did you know that I have a son?”

“No.”

“I have. He is five years old. He cost me his mother’s life, and I have never been able to bear to look upon his
face in consequence. Holly, if you will accept the trust, I am going to leave you that boy’s sole guardian.”

I sprang almost out of my chair. “Me!” I said.

“Yes, you. I have not studied you for two years for nothing. I have known for some time that I could not last, and
since I realised the fact I have been searching for some one to whom I could confide the boy and this,” and he tapped
the iron box. “You are the man, Holly; for, like a rugged tree, you are hard and sound at core. Listen; the boy will be
the only representative of one of the most ancient families in the world, that is, so far as families can be traced.
You will laugh at me when I say it, but one day it will be proved to you beyond a doubt, that my sixty-fifth or
sixty-sixth lineal ancestor was an Egyptian priest of Isis, though he was himself of Grecian extraction, and was called
Kallikrates.2 His father was one of the Greek mercenaries raised by Hak–Hor, a
Mendesian Pharaoh of the twenty-ninth dynasty, and his grandfather or great-grandfather, I believe, was that very
Kallikrates mentioned by Herodotus.3 In or about the year 339 before Christ,
just at the time of the final fall of the Pharaohs, this Kallikrates (the priest) broke his vows of celibacy and fled
from Egypt with a Princess of Royal blood who had fallen in love with him, and was finally wrecked upon the coast of
Africa, somewhere, as I believe, in the neighbourhood of where Delagoa Bay now is, or rather to the north of it, he and
his wife being saved, and all the remainder of their company destroyed in one way or another. Here they endured great
hardships, but were at last entertained by the mighty Queen of a savage people, a white woman of peculiar loveliness,
who, under circumstances which I cannot enter into, but which you will one day learn, if you live, from the contents of
the box, finally murdered my ancestor Kallikrates. His wife, however, escaped, how, I know not, to Athens, bearing a
child with her, whom she named Tisisthenes, or the Mighty Avenger. Five hundred years or more afterwards, the family
migrated to Rome under circumstances of which no trace remains, and here, probably with the idea of preserving the idea
of vengeance which we find set out in the name of Tisisthenes, they appear to have pretty regularly assumed the
cognomen of Vindex, or Avenger. Here, too, they remained for another five centuries or more, till about 770 A.D., when
Charlemagne invaded Lombardy, where they were then settled, whereon the head of the family seems to have attached
himself to the great Emperor, and to have returned with him across the Alps, and finally to have settled in Brittany.
Eight generations later his lineal representative crossed to England in the reign of Edward the Confessor, and in the
time of William the Conqueror was advanced to great honour and power. From that time to the present day I can trace my
descent without a break. Not that the Vinceys — for that was the final corruption of the name after its bearers took
root in English soil — have been particularly distinguished — they never came much to the fore. Sometimes they were
soldiers, sometimes merchants, but on the whole they have preserved a dead level of respectability, and a still deader
level of mediocrity. From the time of Charles II. till the beginning of the present century they were merchants. About
1790 by grandfather made a considerable fortune out of brewing, and retired. In 1821 he died, and my father succeeded
him, and dissipated most of the money. Ten years ago he died also, leaving me a net income of about two thousand a
year. Then it was that I undertook an expedition in connection with that,” and he pointed to the iron chest,
“which ended disastrously enough. On my way back I travelled in the South of Europe, and finally reached Athens. There
I met my beloved wife, who might well also have been called the ‘Beautiful,’ like my old Greek ancestor. There I
married her, and there, a year afterwards, when my boy was born, she died.”

2 The Strong and Beautiful, or, more accurately, the Beautiful
in strength.

3 The Kallikrates here referred to by my friend was a Spartan,
spoken of by Herodotus (Herod. ix. 72) as being remarkable for his beauty. He fell at the glorious battle of Platæa
(September 22, B.C. 479), when the Lacedæmonians and Athenians under Pausanias routed the Persians, putting nearly
300,000 of them to the sword. The following is a translation of the passage, “For Kallikrates died out of the battle,
he came to the army the most beautiful man of the Greeks of that day — not only of the Lacedæmonians themselves, but of
the other Greeks also. He when Pausanias was sacrificing was wounded in the side by an arrow; and then they fought, but
on being carried off he regretted his death, and said to Arimnestus, a Platæan, that he did not grieve at dying for
Greece, but at not having struck a blow, or, although he desired so to do, performed any deed worthy of himself.” This
Kallikrates, who appears to have been as brave as he was beautiful, is subsequently mentioned by Herodotus as having
been buried among the ἰρένες (young commanders), apart from the other Spartans and the Helots. — L. H. H.

He paused a while, his head sunk upon his hand, and then continued —

“My marriage had diverted me from a project which I cannot enter into now. I have no time, Holly — I have no time!
One day, if you accept my trust, you will learn all about it. After my wife’s death I turned my mind to it again. But
first it was necessary, or, at least, I conceived that it was necessary, that I should attain to a perfect knowledge of
Eastern dialects, especially Arabic. It was to facilitate my studies that I came here. Very soon, however, my disease
developed itself, and now there is an end of me.” And as though to emphasise his words he burst into another terrible
fit of coughing.

I gave him some more whisky, and after resting he went on —

“I have never seen my boy, Leo, since he was a tiny baby. I never could bear to see him, but they tell me that he is
a quick and handsome child. In this envelope,” and he produced a letter from his pocket addressed to myself, “I have
jotted down the course I wish followed in the boy’s education. It is a somewhat peculiar one. At any rate, I could not
entrust it to a stranger. Once more, will you undertake it?”

“I must first know what I am to undertake,” I answered.

“You are to undertake to have the boy, Leo, to live with you till he is twenty-five years of age — not to send him
to school, remember. On his twenty-fifth birthday your guardianship will end, and you will then, with the keys that I
give you now” (and he placed them on the table) “open the iron box, and let him see and read the contents, and say
whether or no he is willing to undertake the quest. There is no obligation on him to do so. Now, as regards terms. My
present income is two thousand two hundred a year. Half of that income I have secured to you by will for life,
contingently on your undertaking the guardianship — that is, one thousand a year remuneration to yourself, for you will
have to give up your life to it, and one hundred a year to pay for the board of the boy. The rest is to accumulate till
Leo is twenty-five, so that there may be a sum in hand should he wish to undertake the quest of which I spoke.”

“And suppose I were to die?” I asked.

“Then the boy must become a ward of Chancery and take his chance. Only be careful that the iron chest is passed on
to him by your will. Listen, Holly, don’t refuse me. Believe me, this is to your advantage. You are not fit to mix with
the world — it would only embitter you. In a few weeks you will become a Fellow of your College, and the income that
you will derive from that combined with what I have left you will enable you to live a life of learned leisure,
alternated with the sport of which you are so fond, such as will exactly suit you.”

He paused and looked at me anxiously, but I still hesitated. The charge seemed so very strange.

“For my sake, Holly. We have been good friends, and I have no time to make other arrangements.”

“Very well,” I said, “I will do it, provided there is nothing in this paper to make me change my mind,” and I
touched the envelope he had put upon the table by the keys.

“Thank you, Holly, thank you. There is nothing at all. Swear to me by God that you will be a father to the boy, and
follow my directions to the letter.”

“I swear it,” I answered solemnly.

“Very well, remember that perhaps one day I shall ask for the account of your oath, for though I am dead and
forgotten, yet I shall live. There is no such thing as death, Holly, only a change, and, as you may perhaps learn in
time to come, I believe that even that change could under certain circumstances be indefinitely postponed,” and again
he broke into one of his dreadful fits of coughing.

“There,” he said, “I must go, you have the chest, and my will will be found among my papers, under the authority of
which the child will be handed over to you. You will be well paid, Holly, and I know that you are honest, but if you
betray my trust, by Heaven, I will haunt you.”

I said nothing, being, indeed, too bewildered to speak.

He held up the candle, and looked at his own face in the glass. It had been a beautiful face, but disease had
wrecked it. “Food for the worms,” he said. “Curious to think that in a few hours I shall be stiff and cold — the
journey done, the little game played out. Ah me, Holly! life is not worth the trouble of life, except when one is in
love — at least, mine has not been; but the boy Leo’s may be if he has the courage and the faith. Good-bye, my friend!”
and with a sudden access of tenderness he flung his arm about me and kissed me on the forehead, and then turned to
go.

“Look here, Vincey,” I said, “if you are as ill as you think, you had better let me fetch a doctor.”

“No, no,” he said earnestly. “Promise me that you won’t. I am going to die, and, like a poisoned rat, I wish to die
alone.”

“I don’t believe that you are going to do anything of the sort,” I answered. He smiled, and, with the word
“Remember” on his lips, was gone. As for myself, I sat down and rubbed my eyes, wondering if I had been asleep. As this
supposition would not bear investigation I gave it up and began to think that Vincey must have been drinking. I knew
that he was, and had been, very ill, but still it seemed impossible that he could be in such a condition as to be able
to know for certain that he would not outlive the night. Had he been so near dissolution surely he would scarcely have
been able to walk, and carry a heavy iron box with him. The whole story, on reflection, seemed to me utterly
incredible, for I was not then old enough to be aware how many things happen in this world that the common sense of the
average man would set down as so improbable as to be absolutely impossible. This is a fact that I have only recently
mastered. Was it likely that a man would have a son five years of age whom he had never seen since he was a tiny
infant? No. Was it likely that he could foretell his own death so accurately? No. Was it likely that he could trace his
pedigree for more than three centuries before Christ, or that he would suddenly confide the absolute guardianship of
his child, and leave half his fortune, to a college friend? Most certainly not. Clearly Vincey was either drunk or mad.
That being so, what did it mean? and what was in the sealed iron chest?

The whole thing baffled and puzzled me to such an extent that at last I could stand it no longer, and determined to
sleep over it. So I jumped up, and having put the keys and the letter that Vincey had left away into my despatch-box,
and stowed the iron chest in a large portmanteau, I turned in, and was soon fast asleep.

As it seemed to me, I had only been asleep for a few minutes when I was awakened by somebody calling me. I sat up
and rubbed my eyes; it was broad daylight — eight o’clock, in fact.

“Why, what is the matter with you, John?” I asked of the gyp who waited on Vincey and myself. “You look as though
you had seen a ghost!”

“Yes, sir, and so I have,” he answered, “leastways I’ve seen a corpse, which is worse. I’ve been in to call Mr.
Vincey, as usual, and there he lies stark and dead!”